


Chance

by Sky_kiss



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Boys, Elric Boys, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, He's Just Kind of a Dipstick, Hohenheim isn't a bad guy, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Shower Sex, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: The thing was: sometimes chance worked out for the best, sometimes the worst. Hohenheim couldn't say how the dice would fall this time. Alternate universe in which Hohenheim receives his sons letters asking him to come home.





	Chance

**Author's Note:**

> These two deserve more pretty things as they are, inarguably, perfect. I know they get their happy ending eventually but...this was a fun little exploration.

Alchemists, for all their talent, their nearly supernatural gifts, had no precise explanation for the the workings of chance. Mathematical anomalies or divine intervention; there were tens of thousands of hypothesi and not a concrete fact between them. Hohenheim had always harbored a dark fascination with chance; after all, it was the only reason he existed today. 

He had been wandering the southern reaches of the country when the letter found him. It was chance again, the paper weather worn, the ink smeared in places. The script was tight but flawed in places, suggesting a child’s work. 

“One of your boys, maybe?” 

His heart clenched in his chest, that familiar pang of self loathing rising to the fore. He nodded, scanning the document once, “Perhaps. They were...too young for it, last I saw them.” Lyra smiled at him. It was the same expression each of his associates wore when he mentioned his family: pity mixed with distaste. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, lips pursed to a thin line before passing it back to her, “It’s addressed to you.” 

She huffed, opening the envelope with fastidious care, “Of course. It’s me they want to get ahold of.” 

There would never be proper silence in Lyra’s establishment. The South was not what it once was, not after the various insurrections, but life was still strong in this region. The inn, or tavern, depending on how generous you were feeling, never wanted for patronage. Hohenheim leaned back in his seat, plucking listlessly at his food. He missed Resembool. It would be spring now, the few trees dotted with blossoms, the countryside smelling of fresh grass and rain. The winds were always the most aggressive over those few months. He had nearly every farmer in the township make the long journey down the lane, eager to trades goods for his alchemy. Fixing fences, barns...inglorious work, but honest. 

Trisha would be tending her garden now, the boys whooping around her…

He put that image out of his mind. 

Lyra set the letter aside. The woman’s hand was shaking badly as she reached for her wine. Hohenheim frowned, reaching out to her. She shook her head, swallowing. While age had robbed her of much of her vivacity, it had not dulled her eyes. They remained the same brilliant shade of indigo. Somewhere, perhaps not far back, in her lineage, there was mixed blood. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, “Your boys have been sending letters to everyone you ever came into contact with Hohenheim. All just to find you.” She brought the wine to her lips; in the low light, he could just barely make out the slick tear track, cutting across her cheek, “They’re desperate.” 

That ache again, worse. The Xerian’s mouth felt dry, a peculiar sensation of weightlessness settling down upon him. Not entirely unlike being on the other side of the gate, Truth rending him into pieces, rebuilding him anew, “Do they say why?” 

She pushed the letter towards him again, shaking her head.

“Your wife, Hohenheim. She’s dying.”   
_____

The fever was getting worse. 

Trisha frowned, lifting her hand, turning her wrist one way, then the other. It seemed they were two or perhaps three different iterations of her limb, each of their lines swimming in to one another. When she blinked, it cleared up. The young woman sighed, letting her arm fall back to the mattress. Too much effort. She was too tired to manage even those simplest of tasks. 

Outside, she could make out the familiar tenors of birdsong. Sunlight streamed through the bedroom’s large bay windows. At a push, she would put the time at just after eight, still early. That explained the presence of two little bodies curled on either side of her. 

She pursed her lips, reaching down to scratch her nails through one of the boy’s hair. Edward. His hair was a paler shade, a white blond so much like his father’s that it left her chest aching. He could have been a mirror image. Her eldest had nestled against her at some point in the night, his back pressed flush to her side, facing the door. Wanting comfort but afraid to look weak. She smiled, sadly, tracing the line of his cheek. The world had put far too much on his plate, far too early. His little hands were curled into fists, one jammed up under his jaw. The fingers were stained black with ink.

They’d been writing their letters again. 

She would have cried if she could but that maternal instinct refused to allow it. Alphonse was resting on her opposite side, his arm thrown across her waist, his head heavy on her belly. She could feel his legs tangled with her own, clutching her to him as if he feared she might vanish while he slept. His finger’s had left little smudges of black across the fabric of her nightgown. 

They were good boys. She allowed herself one shuddering breath before screwing her eyes shut. 

They didn’t deserve to grow up without a family. She’d done her best to hold on, to fight this illness, but...the end was in sight. Trisha Elric did not pity herself for this. People died everyday; it was a fact of life. Instead, she felt fear. Fear for her sons going out into the world alone. Fear for her husband, who would come back to find an empty house. To a simple grave, and not the wife who’d promised to wait for him. 

She was going to break her promise. 

“Mom? Mom, what’s wrong?” Ed’s voice, thick with sleep. Her eldest half turned, panic flooding into his strange gold eyes as he fixed on her. He let out a rasping breath, throwing his arms around her neck. Trisha clutched him to her with all the strength she had left, his face tucked in her hair, “What’s wrong? Mom, I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, just please don’t cry…” 

She couldn’t keep her promise.   
______

An automobile in this part of the country was unheard of. It had never struck him as an inconvenience until now. The country lanes had never been designed for more than a horse drawn cart. He had caught the train to Resembool, paid extra for the earliest ticket. One of the farmer’s at the station had recognized him and offered him a lift. 

He’d waved the man off. It wouldn’t do. Animals were...uncomfortable with his condition. He had left his briefcase with the man, all his research, his spare changes of clothes, his funding, and ran. That blind panic, the madness, was not entirely foreign. He had felt it once before. That same sickly fear, coiling low in the belly, reaching out and digging its tendrils until it poisoned all sense of reason… 

It felt like Xerxes all over again. Emerging from the palace ground to find only silence and death.

The very act of returning was selfish. He should have stayed. Not one of the voices housed within him offered a word of protest. He could feel them, separated from his own soul, waiting. Almost vibrating in their anticipation. This was for him, for Van Hohenheim, their friend and countryman. After centuries, they would not begrudge him for something so simple. 

He ran. 

Their home was miles from the station but he ran, ducking out of the way of carts when necessary, waving off concern or calls from those that recognized him. His son’s letter was folded in his breast pocket, a lead weight over his heart. He had to make it back, had to make it home. 

He prayed he wasn’t too late.   
_____

“C’mon, boys, leave your mother to get her rest…” 

“But, granny…” 

“I won’t hear any ‘but’s,’ young man. Now. You heard me the first time. Out.” 

Pinako swatted the younger of the Elric boys, not missing the way they grumbled or kept casting furtive glances over their shoulders. The poor things were worried sick and it was showing. Dark bags rimmed their exotic eyes. Both of them had lost weight. As delicate as they were, it wasn’t something they could afford. The older woman sighed, clasping her hands in front of her. 

Was a hell of a situation they found themselves in. And not one they deserved either. The Elric family were collectively stubborn, sure, but they’d never caused anyone any issues. Was just plain bad luck. And some stupid too, she supposed. If Hohenheim were here, she’d have half a mind to kill him herself. The old fool, running out on a young wife and two boys, barely out of infancy. She’d known him long enough to know he’d probably had his reasons (and they’d be good too, noble, like the martyr he was) but that didn’t change facts. You didn’t abandon family. 

She sighed, making her way down to the kitchen. The Elric boys were already seated at the table, reams and reams of paper spread out before them. Al was shaking out his hand, head almost pressed to the wooden surface to hide the tears slowly trickling down his face. 

Ed was different. There was too much rage in him for a boy of his age. His little mouth was curled back in a snarl, nails digging at the tabletop. He rounded on her with barely contained fury. Beneath it, she could see his despair, “He’s not coming, is he? He’s gonna let her die.”

“Ed,” his younger brother’s voice was watery, “Ed, don’t say that.” 

“Well it’s true, ain’t it? How long have we been writing these stupid things,” he swiped his arm out wide, sending paper and ink tumbling to the floor. One of the pots shattered. Pinako remained where she was, silent, letting him work things out. His shoulders were shaking, trying to hold back his tears. Edward swiped one hand across his eyes, “He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to him that mom’s dying, he’s not coming home.” 

“Edward,” the boy stared at her with blazing eyes, the same strange color as his father’s. “I have known your father for longer than I care to remember. That man is many things, some good, some bad, but I have never known him to be cruel.” 

His tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of his lips, a desperate attempt to hide its wobble. He was still so young, they both were. The boy was fighting not to sob, hugging his knees to his chest, “Then where is he, granny? Can’t you….isn’t there a way to make him come back?” 

She crossed to him, gathering the boy to her chest, “I’m afraid not, Ed. I’m afraid not.”   
_____

The thing about chance was this: sometimes it worked out for the better, sometimes the worse. 

Hohenheim wasn’t sure which way the dice would fall here. He’d crashed into the front door without pausing to slow his stride. There’d been pain, a jarring sensation in his shoulder, but it was an afterthought as he pushed inside, breathing heavily. Everything was the same as he’d left it. It was only the scent that had changed, a note of sickness forming an undercurrent to the comfort. 

Pinako emerged from the kitchen, livid, “What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in...Hohenheim?”

He didn’t think to move before she’d thrown the rolling pin at him. It impacted him square in the chest. He shook it off, wincing, “Pinako. Where is she? Trisha?” 

“Upstairs. Your bedroom...what are you…” 

“Is that daddy?” 

He learned down to squeeze her shoulder, “Keep the boys down here until I say. Please.”

“You owe me for this, you know that?” 

There was no force behind the threat. He could hear the gratitude in her voice, relief in nothing else. Of course, the boys would turn to the Rockbells. Had Trisha passed...they would have been the only family left to them. He swallowed heavily, pushing up the stairs, pausing in front of the bedroom door. That feeling of death was strongest here, a weight. 

He pushed inside, the need to see his wife overcoming all else. 

Trisha had always been a delicate creature, slender and quite nearly willowy in her build. Now, he would have been afraid to touch her. There was a deathly pallor to her skin despite the fever, a cold wash rag set across her forehead. Hohenheim let out a choked sob, shutting the door behind him before rushing to her bedside. He clutched her hand in his own. Her skin was clammy, “Trisha, if I had known what was happening sooner...I could have spared you this pain.” 

She did not respond. His love made some miserable sound in her sleep, turning her face into the pillow. The sheets were damp with sweat. She was not long for this world. He kissed the back of her knuckles, letting his eyes drift shut, focusing on finding the root of her illness. It was thick in her blood, not unlike a poison, a black ichor amidst her typical energy.

He could fix this. He would fix this.  
_____

Someone was calling her name. 

She could just make it out over the din. It felt, in many ways, as if she were drowning, struggling to reach the surface again. When she tried to take in air, it burned. Trisha frowned, thrashing to the side. Hands held her firmly in place. The stranger called her name again, firmer. She bit down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt. 

Every inch of her felt as though it was on fire, her nerves firing wildly. Sweat licked down the length of her arms, her back, leaving the sheets clinging to her. She wanted out of them, wanted to feel free, to move…

“Trisha, open your eyes.” 

She recognized that voice. The young woman blinked, staring up at the ceiling, her limbs aching but...good. There was...no pain. She took a testing breath. For the first time in weeks, her lungs did not protest the effort. Trisha frowned placing a hand on her chest, wincing as she tried to fight into a seated position. A hand settled at the small of her back, warm, strong, “Easy. You need to move slowly. Your body has gone through quite an ordeal.”

She nodded, leaning her head against her knees, “The boys…”

“With Pinako. I thought it best they remain downstairs until…” she could make out the rustle of fabric as he shrugged. Trisha frowned, hugging her knees to her chest. The hand slid higher, to more neutral ground, “I know it’s not my right to ask but...won’t you look at me?” 

Trisha shook her head, “You wanted me to take it easy, right? So, I don’t think I can.” She bit down on her lip, lifting her head. He was every bit the same as she remembered. Still lovingly tanned and handsome. His hair was wild, bits of dirt smudged across his high cheekbones but...still the man she loved. “Van.” 

Her husband knelt beside her on the bed, gathering her to his chest, burying his face in her hair. She wanted to tell him not to, that she must be a mess, but couldn’t find the strength. She clutched him to her, digging her nails into the fabric of his jacket, “I’m so sorry, Trisha. I should have been here. I should have come sooner.” 

“You’re here now, silly man. That’s all that matters.” 

They stayed like that for a time, clinging to one another, until she’d ruined his shirt with her tears, and her hair was damp with his.   
_____

The boys were already waiting, seated outside the door, their faces hidden in their pulled up knees. Hohenheim cleared his throat, “Your mother is waiting.” 

“Is she…”

“Did you…”

He nodded, kneeling in front of them. Edward recoiled, pressing back against the wall to avoid the press of his hand. It was only when he touched his cheek that the boy seemed to melt, tears cutting violent tracks down his cheek. The boy sobbed, falling into his father’s embrace as his brother did the same, both clinging to him. He held them close, “You were both so brave, so strong, looking after her like that. She was very lucky to have you.” 

“We didn’t think you were coming home.”

Hohenheim leaned back, brushing the tears from Edward’s cheek, “I might not if not for your letter.” 

“You got it?” 

He nodded, hugging his sons, “If I would have known what was happening earlier, believe that nothing would have kept me from returning home.” The Xerxian kissed them both, “Now, your mother is waiting. Be gentle with her; she’s still recovering.” 

They tucked their hands in his, tugging him along after them. For the first time in years, their family was whole. Leaving again might kill him.   
____

Ed and Al fell asleep on either side of her, clutching her to them. The tears (of joy this time) had long since dried up. Now, just after midnight, they were breathing easily, comfortable. She took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to leave this bed, to walk on her own two legs for the first time in weeks. Carefully, ever so carefully, she extracted herself from their grasp, slipping from the bed. She grabbed a fresh dress before heading to the restroom, setting it beside the sink. 

Trisha stared at her own reflection, frowning at what greeted her. She had lost weight. Too much. The nightgown hung off her now, looser around her breasts, her hips. Her hair had lost some of its sheen. But she was alive. At the end of the day, that was what mattered. 

She hugged her arms around herself, heading downstairs. 

“I half expected you to have run off again.” 

Van smiled. He was hunched in front of the kitchen sink, a dishrag tucked in his back pocket. There were a stack of papers on the kitchen table, neatly organized, various quills. He had been cleaning. Her lover let out a soft sigh, “I considered the potential. After seeing you with the boys…” he turned just enough to stare at her, expressions gently pained, “I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He sighed, leaning back against the counter, tucking his hands in his pocket, “How are you feeling?” 

“Better, thanks to you,” she smiled, despite herself. “You look exactly the same.” 

“And you are...even more beautiful than I remember.” 

“Now I know you’re lying.” 

“Trisha,” he shook his head. His fingers grasped at the countertop as if to keep from reaching out to her. “Please, do not doubt me. You will always be the most perfect creature imaginable.” 

The young woman shook her head, staring down at her feet as she closed the distance between them. It was much as it ever was. She could feel his warmth, radiating out across the distance, calling to her. The kitchen window was open, a cool breeze wafting in. It kissed at her skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She took a deep breath, reaching out to curl her fingers in the front of his shirt. He was solid; he was here. She wanted to cry, “Come upstairs with me.”

“Is that what you want?” 

She nodded, cupping his face in her hands, “Please. I still need to shower. But...the boys are in our bed. We could use the spare room…” His features turned. She watched the familiar self loathing wash over him, that desire to pull away from her, to run. She shook her head leaning in to kiss him, “Please.” 

Van took a stuttering breath, his arms coming around her, his hold hard enough to bruise.  
____

“This isn’t the restful recovery I had in mind, beloved…” 

She laughed, leaning her head back against the shower wall. The hot water beating down on them felt better than anything in months. Even still, it paled in comparison to the sensation of finally having her lover near her again. Her thighs ached, stretching to accommodate the breadth of his hips. She took a ragged gasp of air at the first press of his length. He was so wonderfully thick, almost burning against her. 

Trisha hummed, fisting a hand in the length of his hair and tugging, “I don’t know. I think it’s better, don’t you? Some healthy…” she bit her lip, rocking her hips, trying to draw him inside her, “Exercise. Please, Van. I’ve missed you.” 

He nodded, reaching between them to align himself with her core, sinking into her with a reedy sigh. Trisha grinned, hips bucking forward on instinct, that soft pleasure licking along her nerves. She felt whole again for the first time since he’d left. 

This was all that she’d wanted for so long, to feel him again, to reunite. She wound her arms around his neck, digging her heels into his thighs as he thrust into her. It wouldn’t be either of their finest hour and she couldn’t brings herself to care, falling into his rhythm with practiced ease. One of his hands slid around, pressing at the small of her back, bowing her spine until she was pressed to him more tightly, her breasts crushed against his chest. She whined, turning her face up into the spray of water. 

She squeezed him, grinning at the way he stuttered, burying his face in the curve of her throat. “You can’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Her vision dipped near the edges, his voice scraping down the length of her spine. It called to her in a way that didn’t feel quite right, quite human. The strength of their connection frightened her at the best of times. She loved him more than words could properly express, more than she could ever show. It was…cloying and suffocating and binding in a way she was unsure she should ever admit.

Trisha nodded, dragging her lips over the shell of his ear, her voice breathy, panting as they chased their release, “I know, Van, I know.”

She could feel her end, her walls clenching around him more erratically, her body threatening to spasm. She could only just make out his chuckle over the thundering of blood in her ears, his hand just barely managing to clamp over her mouth before she could scream. Trisha let herself go boneless, trusting him to support her weight, as he came, spilling in her with a softer sigh. She tweaked her nose against the crown of his skull, tracing the lazy pass of his lips across her shoulder, painting her skin, marking her. The muscles in her thighs ached.

Van eased her back to her feet, cupping her face in his hands. He was still a mess, his hair dotted with mud. The young woman laughed, tracing the line of his nose with her own before kissing him. It seemed a cliche, too love drunk and young, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was their moment, well earned after their time spent apart.

They spend the rest of the shower exploring one another, his hands smoothing over her breasts her hips, tracing the lines of her calf. She’d pretend his abdomen or his arms needed more care than they could ever require. It’s a learning experience.

By the time they finally stumbled out of the stall, the water had long since run cold.  
____

He will have to leave again. He will have to leave quickly and soon.

Hohenheim sighed, hugging his beloved more closely to him, pressing a chaste kiss to her shoulder. They were curled together in the spare bedroom, the bed far too cramped for his bulk. He’d had worse on the road. Trisha mumbled in her sleep, pressing back obligingly. Her dark hair tickled across his forearm.

The Promised Day was set. His plan would have to be in motion before that occurrence. For his own family, for every other family in the nation. He could not afford to be selfish.

But it was still early. The first rays of sunlight were cutting through the window. The birds were just stirring. Soon their sons would awaken and come searching for their mother. They would be hungry; they would hang off of her. It would be…beautiful in its simplicity.

Trisha groaned, turning onto her opposite side, wrapping her arms around him, face tucked in the hollow of his throat. When she spoke, her voice was still thick with sleep, “Think about it later, silly man. For once, just sleep.”

He smiled, smoothing the hair away from her eyes. She was correct.

He would have to leave again. For now, he had this. Silence, his family…beautiful in its simplicity.


End file.
